Vigil
by froda-baggins
Summary: Katrina keeps watch...
1. Part One: Katrina

Disclaimer: Sleepy Hollow? The movie? Nope, don't own it. That honor goes to Tim Burton. Wish I owned Ichabod though.

A/N: OK, this is just the first part of a little two-part ficlet I'm writing. It's my favorite scene from the movie told from the characters' points of view. I hope you like it! Tell me if you do! 

Part One: Katrina 

I felt so terrible as I sat vigil by Ichabod's bedside that night. He was sleeping fitfully, probably having nightmares of the awful encounter with the Horseman. However, the reason I felt so terrible was that I _didn't_ feel terrible for Brom. Father had been so unwilling to tell me what had happened. Brom had been courting me for some time, and it was assumed in the village that we would be betrothed. Assumed even by me, for a while. That is, until one fateful night when the Pickety Witch had given a complete stranger a kiss on account. The memory of that night, of my boldness, made me blush a little in embarrassment, but the memory of what I had seen as I removed the blindfold sent a wave of warmth through me that had nothing to do with propriety. 

Those eyes. Beautiful, dark, haunting. The sort of eyes I could lose myself in. Under the stoic exterior, I sensed a very loving spirit, full of pain. What kind of pain it was, I couldn't fathom, but it made me want to hold him close to me like a small child, made me want to promise that he would never feel alone or unloved again. It was a feeling I had never had with Brom, who was so strong; more likely to be the protector. As the Pickety Witch looked upon the recipient of her kiss, the world stopped. 

I looked down at those eyes, now closed, as he moaned a little in his sleep. I knew the sleeping draught I had given him would soon wear off, and I was reluctant to leave. I didn't want him waking up alone. As Ichabod settled back into sleep, I returned to my thoughts. I supposed I wasn't completely heartless. The news of Brom's death had shaken me to the core. We had grown up together, after all. He had been a good man, and a good friend. But I was supposed to be in love with him, his death was supposed to make me want to end my own life in my despair. And yet, I felt no such pain. In fact, I found myself almost instantly forgetting Brom as I fretted over Ichabod. 

I was once again broken out of my reverie as the good constable began tossing in his sleep. I tried to calm him, but the tossing grew worse, accompanied by low frightened moans. When he started out of sleep, I was waiting, and I folded him into my arms, forgetting propriety all together in my need to comfort this lost soul. 

"Shh," I whispered, "you were dreaming." 

"Yes…. of things I had forgotten," he replied, "…and would not like to remember." 

"Tell me what you dreamt," I prompted softly. My mother had always had me share my dreams with her, and it always helped the fear recede. 

"My mother was an innocent, a child of nature; condemned… murdered by my father." 

The last was spoken so softly I almost thought I had heard wrong. I pulled away, startled. "Murdered by…?" 

"Murdered to save her soul, by a Bible-black tyrant, behind a mask of righteousness. I was seven when I lost my faith." 

I was shocked by the bluntness of this statement. I could not imagine my life without the faith that had been instilled in me from infancy. I could not help but to ask my next question. "What do you believe in?" 

"Sense and reason. Cause and consequence; I should not have come to this place, where my rational mind has been so controverted by the spirit world." 

I wanted desperately to cry out "But what about me?" I had been so certain that what I felt for Ichabod was reciprocated. That day in the woods, he had been so flattering. Had it all been a sham? "Will you take nothing from Sleepy Hollow that was worth the coming here?" I found myself asking. 

He looked at me then, and my heart swelled. "No, not nothing. A kiss from a lovely young woman, before she saw my face or knew my name." 

It made me so happy to think that he cherished that memory as much as I. "Yes," I murmured, "without sense or reason." 

He lowered his gaze, looking slightly abashed. "Forgive me, I… I speak of kisses, and you have lost your brave man, Brom." 

The mention of that name sent a bolt of pain through my heart. I found myself confiding my fears in Ichabod. "I have shed my tears for Brom; and yet my heart is not broken. Do you think me wicked?" I asked softly. 

"No," he whispered at once. "But perhaps there is a bit of a witch in you, Katrina." 

"Why do you say that?" I asked, taken aback by this remark. 

"Because you have bewitched me." 

I couldn't find words, so I merely drew him into my arms again. And in that instant, the world stopped. 


	2. Part Two: Ichabod

Disclaimer: This is my love letter to Tim Burton, because he rocks my world, as well as Johnny Depp. I don't own any of it.

AN: So here it is, the second part! I must say, it was more difficult to get into Ichabod's head than it was to get into Katrina's. Maybe it's just because I'm not used to writing from a man's perspective. Ah well, I did it, and if you see anything seriously wrong with my characterization, please don't hesitate to point it out. I'm always looking to improve. Anyway, enjoy! 

Part Two: Ichabod

I was dreaming again. I was beginning to hope I would be free of them after moving to New York to begin my life anew, but since I had come to Sleepy Hollow, they had been occurring with much more frequency. They had altered somewhat, however. The dark figure, The Priest, had now become the Horseman. The Red Door finally opened, and I was drawn inexorably inside, and suddenly I remembered, I knew what I would see when I got to the end of that chamber of horrors, and I didn't want to see it, wanted to turn back, but couldn't. 

Those eyes. My mother's eyes, so warm and loving in life, frozen now in pain, and empty with death. I jumped back, and felt the searing pain on my palms, holding them up I saw them covered with my own blood. I looked up as the Iron Maiden opened, slowly, and all I could see were her eyes, her blood, my blood, the blood of all the innocents who had met their deaths in this room for the Faith. The entire universe became a hell full of blood, with those eyes at the center of it all and then…

I started out of sleep and into the arms of an angel.

The wound in my shoulder was healing quickly, the pain reduced to a mere ache, I noted with the part of my mind that was always rational, even in times like these. But my palms were throbbing with pain I noticed as the angel spoke.

"Shh. You were dreaming." She said soothingly as I looked at my hands to see the old scars reopened, my palms dotted with blood. I felt I should answer her, so she wouldn't worry.

"Yes…" I began, "of things I had forgotten…and would not like to remember." I gave an involuntary shudder.

"Tell me what you dreamt." She said softly. 

I found myself opening up to her, as I had never opened up to anyone, save my mother. I was surprised to find myself telling her the story, the event that had changed me forever. 

"My mother was an innocent," I began. "A child of nature. Condemned…murdered…by my father." My God. What was I saying? I had never even admitted it to myself; in my head he had always been The Priest.

Katrina pulled away suddenly, looking me in the eye. "Murdered by…?"

I looked away from her face, I couldn't bear to see the surprise and compassion there. "Murdered to save her soul, by a Bible-black tyrant behind a mask of righteousness. I was seven when I lost my faith."

She seemed even more shocked by this blunt statement, or maybe at the anger behind it.

"What do you believe in?"

I found myself answering the way I would have answered to one of my fellow constables in New York. "Sense and reason; cause and consequence. I should not have come here, where my rational mind has been so controverted by the spirit world." I felt awful the instant the words had left my lips, for she looked so dejected as I said it.

"Will you take nothing from Sleepy Hollow that was worth the coming here?"

My heart swelled with admiration, and yes, I will admit it, love, as I answered. "No, not nothing. A kiss from a lovely young woman, before she saw my face or knew my name." I hoped she wouldn't take offense at my bluntness. But she didn't.

"Yes," she said, "without sense or reason."

My heart sank again as she said this, remembering the events of the previous evening. "Forgive me," I said, "Here I speak of kisses, and you have lost your brave man, Brom."

She looked at me for a moment, thoughtful. Then she answered slowly. "I have shed my tears for Brom, and yet, my heart is not broken. Do you think me wicked?" She asked this with such sincerity that I hadn't the heart to laugh at her childishness.

"No," I answered, "But I think there is a bit of the witch in you Katrina."

"Why do you say that?" she asked, worried.

"Because you have bewitched me." I should have been embarrassed to admit such a thing to her, but strangely I was not, and she only smiled, the smile that lit my whole world with its radiance, and drew me into her arms once again. And I felt safe, truly safe, for the first time since before my mother died.


End file.
